


Going Home

by wolvenkings



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alive Georgie Denbrough, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, death mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 23:46:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12331260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolvenkings/pseuds/wolvenkings
Summary: Georgie can't stand the rain, or the damp, or the dark and he's not sure why, but he knows that it has something to do with how he lost his arm twenty-seven years ago.Now, a well established counselor, Georgie finds the darkness and memory creeping up on him and when he finds out that Billy is returning to Derry, Georgie packs his bags.It's time that he remembered, he decides.Georgie Denbrough is going home.





	Going Home

**Author's Note:**

> I posted a small ficlet in the Drabbles and Ficlets folder about what would happen if Georgie survived and wanted to expand on that idea.

“I look like my mom,” Jackson had been quiet most of the afternoon, out of the ordinary for him, but Georgie hadn’t wanted to push him into talking if he didn’t want to. That just resulted in short answers and resentment and so he let Jackson content himself to playing with Junior while he got to work on fixing that leaky faucet in the bathroom. He can’t stand the sound of dripping water or the smell of dampness and though he doesn’t remember why, he’s almost certain it has something to do with what happened to him when he was younger.

Georgie knows you’re not supposed to have favorites, but he has a soft spot for Jackson. The kid’s got a gentle inquisitive nature that reminds him of someone he’d once known, and often preferred to spend their Tuesday and Friday sessions tinkering on some project around the office rather than sitting in the worn old chairs. Put Jackson in a chair and he would clam up, but give him something to do with his hand and eventually whatever lurked in the back of his mind would find a way out and they could work from there. 

“Oh?” Is all that he says as he reaches for a wrench.

Jackson quit scratching behind Junior’s ear just long enough to hand Georgie the tool, taking his time to select the correct one. He did, ever the quick learner. He’d noticed Jackson didn’t favor his father when Adam first brought Jackson to him, but he hadn’t thought too much on it. He didn’t look like his dad and his brother didn’t look like their mom. Life and genetics are just like that sometimes.

“Yeah,” Jackson says simply, absently flipping Junior’s ear back and forth. Junior is about the most even tempered, patient dog in the world and Georgie takes him everywhere with him, though he quickly tired of explaining that  _ yes _ , his dog’s name is Georgie Junior and  _ yes _ he knows he’s not very adept at naming things, and so he takes to calling the stubby little bulldog Junior. 

“Is that a bad thing?” Georgie prods gently and then gestures for Jackson to join him under the sink. “Wanna try?”

Jackson gives Junior a ‘be right back’ pat and crawls beneath the sink and if Junior minded the boy’s absence one couldn’t tell by the contented way he sprawled on the cool tile of the bathroom floor.

“It’s not a bad thing,” Jackson says as he takes the wrench in his hand. “She was pretty. The prettiest lady in the world, but I don’t know-” he caught himself reaching for the wrench with his other hand, having forgotten for the moment that it was no longer there, and sighed. “Sometimes I feel like my dad won’t look at me.”

“You’ll get used to that,” Georgie says as he catches Jackson’s mournful glance at his shoulder. “Eventually you won’t even miss it.”

Like Georgie, Jackson had lost his left arm from the elbow down. Unlike Georgie, Jackson had lost his mother in the same accident.

He shows Jackson how to brace himself and smiles proudly as the boy gives the wrench a decent turn. The terrible  _ drip, drip, drip _ stops.

“Everyone handles grief in their own way,” he tells the boy as he scooches out from beneath the sink and wipes his hand on a towel. “And it’s not always the best way, and sometimes it hurts the people around them, and it’s almost never intentional, but that doesn’t make it any easier.”

He doesn’t remind Jackson that his father loves him. The kid knows that, and that’ll only make him feel bad for mentioning the issue to begin with. Instead he asks, “Have you spoken to him?” even though he knows the answer.

“No,” Jackson admits quietly. “I know he doesn’t mean it. It’s just, he misses her. I miss her too. I wish I could talk to her, because she’d know what to do but, you know.” She’s gone.

Georgie imagines that Jackson’s dad probably feels the same but he doesn’t point that out.

“Sometimes I wish it had been me,” Jackson says quietly.

There it is, Georgie thinks and his heart sinks in his chest. Jackson’s brilliant and probably the funniest person that Georgie knows, but the weight of the world and death has been sitting on his shoulders. He’s only nine, but he’s already lived a hundred years.

“It’s not your fault,” Georgie tells him and Jackson doesn’t look at him but he nods with wet eyes.

“Feels like it is,” he sniffs.

“I know,” Georgie tells him and places his hand on the kid’s shoulder, “but it’s not. You can’t help what happened, Jackson, no matter how many times you replay it in your mind.”

“ It’s not fair,” Jackson wiped at his eyes with his sleeve.

“It’s not,” Georgie agrees, because it’s not. He’s learned in thirty-three years that life is the furthest thing from fair. He’s learned with Jackson that if he listens, the kid will talk, and so he listens and let Jackson spill what he’s been keeping in since their Tuesday session. 

Jackson begins to absently pack away the tools, making sure to put each wrench and socket in their correct slot in the tool case. The kid appreciates order far more than a nine year old normally would and Georgie knows that it’s because he feels like he’s not in control of his life. 

“Do you think that my dad wishes it was me?” he asks quietly, turning a socket over and over in his hand, somewhat clumsily. He was left handed.

“I don’t,” Georgie says simply, earnestly, and Jackson peers up at him as if he senses it. “And I don’t think that your mom would, either. It’s easy to blame yourself, to think that it should have been you, that it would have been easier if it were, but that’s not true. It’s never easy, loss, and it’s hard to believe that it’s okay to have survived when someone else didn’t. I’m not sure it’s something that you can ever  _ truly _ accept, maybe it’s more like a work in progress that’s perpetually in progress.”

“I’m not sure that I feel uplifted,” Jackson almost managed a snort, and finally puts the last socket into place.

“I’ll never lie to you, buddy,” Georgie tells him earnestly.

“I know,” Jackson clumsily pushes himself up from the floor and Georgie lets him, ready to step in only if it looks like he could fall and hurt himself, but he doesn’t. Jackson makes it to his feet and reaches down to offer Georgie his hand.

“I think maybe he feels guilty too,” he muses as he ‘helps’ Georgie to his feet. “Like I do.”

“I’m willing to bet that he does.”

“I don’t want him to,” Jackson swallows and reaches down to scratch behind Junior’s ear. Junior licks his hand and he quirks the closest thing to a smile that Georgie’s seen all afternoon, but that’s okay. No one has to smile here if they don’t feel like it. 

“I bet he doesn’t want you to, either.”

“I don’t know how to talk to him,” he admits. “And don’t say ‘just like you talk to me’. It’s not the same.”

“Wasn’t gonna,” Georgie holds up his hands in mock surrender before gesturing to the sitting area with his prosthetic. It had taken him years to get used to the site of it, metalic and almost skeletal, but now it’s more a part of him than his left hand ever was. For some reason, he could have sworn it felt wet and cold and he absently flexes the metal fingers.

“Maybe you don’t have to talk,” Georgie suggests. “Maybe your dad is a little like you: if you listen, he’ll talk on his own.”

“Do I do that?” Jackson asks, genuinely curious and Georgie nods. 

“What if he doesn’t?”

“I’m willing to bet if you talk, about anything, no matter how small, he’ll be thrilled to listen until you’re ready to have the talk that you need to have.” Georgie reaches into the fridge in the corner, an old faded teal thing and offers Jackson a bottle of water before they sink into the chairs next to the window.

“How do you know?” Jackson says as he absently picks at the label.

“Call it a hunch,” Georgie watches Junior have an internal debate over whose lap to claim and then watches the dog toddle off to curl at Jackson’s feet.

_ Good boy _ , he thinks.

“Is that how it happened with you and your parents?” Jackson asks.

“My brother,” Georgie clarifies, “but yeah, sort of. He’s four years older, but if you ask him he thinks he’s my dad. He let me come to him in my own time, but he was always there.”

“Where is he now?”

“England,” Georgie says and he can’t keep the small frown from his face. His parents had divorced a few years after his accident; their dad had taken Bill and their mom had taken Georgie, something he’d never really forgiven them for even though he knew harboring that grudge was detrimental. Bill had visited him at every opportunity and had called him every night, and when he’d gone to college he’d made sure to attend the university closest to Georgie. He’d sacrificed so much for him and Georgie did feel guilty, but he still missed him despite practically shoving Bill onto the plane with his beautiful wife.

“ _ Go,” _ he’d said. “ _ You worked so hard on this book, are you really going to let someone else butcher the movie? _ ”

And so Bill had gone, and they spoke often, but the time difference made it difficult to catch one another at a decent time.

“You miss him?”

“Every day,” Georgie told him, but then wrinkled his nose in a way that made him look more like a lanky child than an adult, “but don’t tell him that.”

Their session had technically ended ten minutes ago, but Jackson was his last client that day and Georgie could never bare to cut anyone short. Jackson, however, glanced at the clock and practically jumped up, nearly tripping over Junior as he did. 

Junior, lazy as he was, wasn’t bothered in the least.

“Easy there,” Georgie chuckled, ready to offer Jackson a hand to steady himself but the boy did just fine on his own.

“Sorry to keep you,” he apologized, “I do it every week.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Georgie assured him and then asked as he always did, “how are you feeling?”

“I feel okay,” Jackson told him after having thought about it for a moment and Georgie could see that the boy truly meant it.

“I’m glad,” he told him as they walked together to the door. “And if you need me at any point during the week, you know how to reach me.”

“I know,” Jackson said, tapping his temple to signify that he knew Georgie’s number by heart.

“Good,” said Georgie as he opened the door for them. Adam Bunsk usually waited in the car but that day he was sitting on the step of the old brownstone, anxiously waiting for his son to walk through the door. He tried to give Jackson his space, Georgie knew, but he couldn’t bare to be too far away from him for too long. He was getting better, though, and he would get better still. Georgie had done the same thing when he was younger, only he couldn’t bare to be away from Bill, even for a moment. 

His left hand felt damp, despite being long gone, and Georgie absently flexed the fingers of his prosthetic to shake the feeling but there was something at the back of his mind that told him it wasn’t going to go away and he could have sworn he heard a laugh.

“Ah, Mister Bunsk,” Georgie greeted him, forcing himself to focus on the moment rather than the clammy grip of the past threatening to pull him backwards. 

Adam stood and brushed his jeans. He was young, too young to have been dealt such  tragedy but then again, so many were. “Doctor Denbrough, thank you for seeing him.” 

He says it every time and he genuinely means it but his wide eyes beg in silent question  _ Is my boy okay? _

“It’s my pleasure,” Georgie assures him, “he’s a great kid-”

Jackson cut in, not quite bashful, but having grown unsure of how to handle any praise directed towards him, something that they will have to work on in the future.

“Dad, do you, maybe, wanna see a movie today?”

Any admonishment for interrupting them that Adam might have had died on his lips and he looked to Georgie with wet eyes before looking down at Jackson.

“Yeah,” he says, almost wistful, “I’d like that.”

Georgie bids them goodbye, knowing that Adam will be calling him later to ask more about Jackson’s session, and turns to go back inside.

Junior boofs at having been left inside, and other than that the office is silent. Every inch of the old brownstone on the corner of Charlotte and Weyler streets has been lovingly redone, from the floors to the ceilings as Georgie had found himself to be somewhat of a tinkerer. Whenever one project was done, he found another. He loved his office, it was his second home and he had designed it to be a safe place for people that were learning to deal with amputations and needed a place to vent and also to know that  _ yes, you can do this, it’ll be okay _ . 

He chose the chairs because they were comfortable, not because they matched, and had dotted the walls with photos that he had taken himself over the years. He remembers his brother’s friend, only vaguely, and recalls his gentle nature and love of books. He had given Georgie his first camera.

_ There’s strength in numbers, _ he recalled a voice saying,  _ and seven’s lucky. _

“Seven’s lucky,” he repeats to himself. He can’t shake the damp feeling in the ghost of his hand and he swears that he can smell it despite having worked all afternoon on the sink and with no other appointments that afternoon, he and Junior call it a day.

 

* * *

 

 

He makes his notes on Jackson’s case on the bus, Junior curled up at his side, and feels like he’s being watched. He smiles as he looks up to meet the wide brown eyes peering at him over the seat in front of them.

“Hello,” a small voice says.

“Hello,” he says in return, giving the little girl a nod.

“What are you doing?” she asks, in that perpetually curious way of three or four year olds. He’s guessing three.

“Taking notes,” he gives the child’s mother a polite nod as she absently turns to see who her daughter is speaking to.

“What happened to your arm?” Asks the child and immediately the mother is on high alert, her hackles raised as she shushes the child and apologizes to Georgie.

“I don’t mind,” he tells her, and truly he doesn’t. He doesn’t mind curious glances or the innocent questions of children and he’d be happy to tell them if the parents ever gave him a chance. It wasn’t the questions that he minded, but the parents’ shame and embarrassment. He wants to tell them to not be embarrassed and that there’s nothing to be ashamed of, that  _ he’s _ not embarrassed or ashamed, but he doesn’t. It would be a never ending conversation and he’s not sure after all of these years how to explain to people that  _ yes _ he exists and so do millions of other people like him and that they don’t have to be tip toed around.

“I was in an accident when I was young,” he says instead, knowing that it’s not quite true but not remembering enough to tell her any different, “and now I’ve got this amazing super arm.” He flexes his prosthetic fingers and watches as her eyes turn into saucers.

“Whoa,” she whispers.

“Right?” he agrees and the peace has been restored, despite the mother’s obvious mortification. 

He closes his notebook and contents himself to looking out the window for the rest of his route, absently flexing his metal fingers. 

The sky looks like it’s turning grey and he frowns. He doesn’t like the rain, hasn’t for as long as he can remember and figures it’s because it always rained in Derry and Derry was, well, where everything happened.

_ What happened to your arm? _

_ A clown ate it. _

He’s not sure why the thought occurs to him but he could have sworn he heard laughter and suddenly he feels sick, the moist feeling in his hand worse than ever, and he wants nothing more than to talk to Bill.

 

Bill’s probably asleep, so he settles for Amy. Technically he doesn’t need a roommate, but Georgie could never stand empty houses and Amy is the best roommate ever, even if she did leave her shoes  _ everywhere _ . 

“What’s wrong?” she’s on him as soon as he and Junior walk inside and he frowns to see that she’s tying on her apron. He’d met her at the diner down the street, where she often worked to make ends meet until she sold her next story and she was obviously on her way there now.

“I almost told a little kid that a clown ate my arm and my hand feels wet,” he spills, knowing full and well that it makes no sense. It doesn’t even make sense to him, let alone her.

“The fuck? Why would you do that?” she asks, mildly horrified, and she takes his hand in hers and turns it this way and that.

“Not that one,” he tells her and holds up his prosthetic. “This one. And I didn’t. It was just, like, I don’t know. An intrusive thought, I guess.”

“A lot of people have phantom sensations in their limbs,” she tells him, voice calm and even, “you told me that, remember?”

He did. 

“You’re right,” he sighs, but that was usually an itch. This felt...slimy and he can’t shake the feeling that his arm is calling to him. “I think I just need to lie down.”

Amy eyed him for a moment, unconvinced, but then she sighed. “I’m running late, so I gotta go. Listen, you go stretch out and I’ll get off as early as I can, alright?” Her hands were all over his face as she spoke, checking his temperature. If Bill was a mother hen, Amy was a screeching eagle of maternal rage.

“You don’t have to do that,” he insisted but she already shrugged him off.

“Bullshit. You’re clammy. Go lie down, I’ll be home soon.  _ Call me _ if you start feeling worse, okay?” she demanded and he insisted that he would even though they both knew that he wouldn’t.

She bent down to give Junior his due affections and left with one last warning glance and Georgie heeded her advice. He didn’t even bother to change, only taking off his shoes and prosthetic, before he fell onto the couch. His room seemed too small, too isolated, and he found himself wanting to be in the center of the house, in the open.

Junior gently hopped onto the couch with him and settled on his stomach and though he was heavy, Georgie was thankful for the familiar weight. 

He counts the dots on the ceiling, always in multiples of seven, until his eyes feel heavy but he can’t fall asleep. 

 

Something smells  _ damp _ . He gently pushes Junior, who groans in protest, to the side and sits up. It’s gotten dark, much quicker than he would have thought, and God something is  _ dripping _ . A shiver travels down his spine, leaving him cold. His pulse thunders in his ears as he stumbles blindly through the dark living room, miraculously not cracking his shin on the coffee table, until he found the wall and began to feel for the light switch. It was slimy beneath his fingers and Georgie  recoils, nearly falling backwards. There’s water around his ankles and he knows somehow that this terrible damp darkness is somewhere that he’s been before.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, telling himself that it’s not real and when he opens his eyes it will be over, but amidst the dripping and his own mantra he hears whispering.

It’s small at first, seemingly far away, but then it’s all around him.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven,” it says slowly, a quiet hiss over and over, rising in volume each time until it’s all bleeding together in his ears. “ _ OnetwothreefourfivesixsevenonetwothreefourfivesixsevenONETWOTHREEFOURFIVESIXSEVEN _ ,” it screams over and over, laughing and singing and screeching.

He tries to tell himself to focus but the counting is too much and hot tears burn at the back of his eyes. He blinks them away and spies the promise of light in the distance. He wades toward it, the hellish counting echoing all around him, somehow growing both louder and quieter as he stumbles through the grey water.

“ONETWOthreefour _ fivesixSEVENonetwo _ threefourfiveSIXseven…”

“Seven’s lucky,” he tells himself, but he can’t hear it over the voices, “there’s power in numbers and seven’s lucky.”

He stumbles and claws his way to the light, feeling all the while like there’s something right behind him, something that  _ wanted  _ him, and suddenly found himself blinded. 

“ _ ONETWOTHREEFOURFIVESIXSEVENONETWOTHREEFOURFIVESIXSEVENONETWOTHREEFOURFIVESIXSEVEN” _

Once his eyes adjust to the sudden light, Georgie sees that he’s in a bathroom, the tiles glistening white beneath the fluorescent lights. A man is sitting in the tub, counting frantically to himself as he struggles to reach the wall. 

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven,” the man sobs as he scrawls at the tile.

Georgie knows that somehow he knows him, somehow he loved him, but he can’t  _ recall _ and he can’t breathe. It feels like something is tickling the ghost of his palm, a slithering tongue, and Georgie wants to scream, to call out to the man in the tub, but he’s frozen in place.

The water slowly turns red, the man’s speech slurred. “One, two, three, four, five,” he falls back into the water, sending a wave of red crashing toward Georgie. 

“Six,” he breathes and then he dies, his eyes wide with fear.

The screaming ceases, replaced by a laugh, a sick cackle that Georgie knows and just as he reads what the man had scrawled on the wall, he hears the wet smack of something crawling toward him.

It was an arm, small and chewed and his and before he could scream, it lunged for him.

  
  


Georgie jolted upright on the couch, his brow damp and a scream on his lips. Junior hopped off him in his panic and Georgie curls in on himself, hyperventilating, shaking.

 

The clock on the table reads 7:47 pm. 

 

In Atlanta, Georgia, Stanley Uris is taking a bath.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> lemme know what you think and, if youre feeling it, come say hi on tumblr! @townofderry


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